


Sweet as Love

by Isis



Category: due South
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-21
Updated: 2006-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welsh tries a latte.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet as Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DS Holiday Party to the prompt: Frannie/Welsh, "Well, you don't have to be so reluctant about it."

When he heard the door open, Welsh didn't even look up from the report he was reading. "You're late, Detective," he said, scribbling his initials at the bottom of the page.

"What do you mean, late? I just thought -"

He jerked upright at the first words, because it wasn't Dewey; it was Francesca Vecchio, holding something in her hands. As usual, he forced himself to look away from her tantalizingly bare midriff; not that looking at her face did much more to keep his mind where it should be, because she was practically bouncing as she walked, a pleased smile on her pretty face, and he had to remind himself not to smile back at her.

"Thinking, very good. Admirable. May I ask what you were thinking? Not about knocking, clearly."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "That's not very nice. Considering I brought you coffee."

That was what was in her hands: a mug of...well, it was a mug, anyway, and he looked at it with suspicion. "Coffee is not white and frothy. It is as black as the devil and hot as hell."

"Pure as an angel and sweet as love," she countered.

"What?"

"It was on the instruction booklet for the cappuccino machine. Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, and sweet as love. Except that's kind of silly, isn't it? You can't make a latte black. Unless you made it with chocolate milk, I guess. And even then -"

"Wait a minute," he said. "You made me a _latte_?"

"I made you a double double half-caf latte. Here you go." She pushed the warm mug into his hands before he could protest.

"Miss Vecchio, this is a police station. We do not drink lattes here."

"Just try it. Come on." He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. "Well, you don't have to be so reluctant about it."

"This is a police station, not Starbucks," he muttered, scowling, but he raised it to his lips anyway.

It was - not bad. Not bad in the sense that the station coffee was unequivocally bad, and this was nothing like station coffee. It was a milky pale brown, and nowhere near hot enough to scald the roof of his mouth, and if _anything_ in the 27th was pure he'd eat his badge. But….

He looked up from the mug to see Francesca looking anxiously at him. "All right. It's certainly sweet, I'll give you that."

She turned pink. "I noticed how much sugar you put in your coffee. Which, you know, you really ought to cut down on, because it can't be good for -"

"Francesca. May I drink my coffee?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, you - " She broke off and looked at him. "You have foam on your lip." She touched her own lip, and he mimicked her movement. "No, farther to the right - wait, here," she said, and she reached over and ran her finger across his upper lip.

They locked gazes. Sweet as love, he thought; slowly he got to his feet, his eyes never leaving hers. "Francesca," he started huskily.

There was a loud rap on the door, and they both jumped. "Sorry I'm late," said Dewey, striding in. Then he stopped, looked at them, and a slow leer crossed his face. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Francesca gulped. Welsh took a hasty step away from her, straightened his spine, and looked Dewey in the eye. "Of course not, Detective. Miss Vecchio was just bringing me a cup of coffee."

"Latte," she said.

Dewey raised an eyebrow at him. "You're drinking lattes now?" Welsh tipped his mug forward so he could see, and Dewey grinned. "Good, aren't they? You gonna let us keep the machine?"

He took a long pull of his latte. "Maybe." It _was_ tasty. And it didn't seem to be giving him that acid burn in his stomach he'd been noticing lately.

"Please?" said Francesca.

"Come on, Lieu. It's good stuff."

"I'll bring you a latte every day," Francesca added.

He pretended to consider. "Well, in that case, I suppose I'll have to let you keep it. Now get out of here. Some of us have actual work to do," he said, although his tone didn't come out quite as gruffly as he'd intended. Giving him a radiant smile, which he hoped Dewey didn't see, she headed out the door. He watched her go, then turned to Dewey. "All right. What do you have for me?"

As Dewey droned on about his latest case, Welsh slowly finished his latte. As sweet, he thought, as love.

_"Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love." - Charles Maurice de Talleyrand (1754-1838), on the perfect cup of coffee._


End file.
